


Riding the Rails

by My_Alter_Ego



Category: White Collar (TV 2009)
Genre: Gen, NY Subway System, tracking devices
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-13 09:15:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28526076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Alter_Ego/pseuds/My_Alter_Ego
Summary: This story harkens back to the early days of Season 1 when Peter and Neal were working out the glitches in their partnership. Peter gets a disconcerting glimpse of what may be in store for him as Neal’s handler, and it becomes a battle of wits between two very smart men. It’s not surprising that there’s lots of bantering and deflection.
Relationships: Peter Burke & Neal Caffrey
Comments: 4
Kudos: 41





	Riding the Rails

When Peter Burke decided to dive into the deep end of the pool and take on con man Neal Caffrey as his sidekick, he never realized that it was going to be like hanging onto a tiger by its tail. His first inkling of what was bound to be challenging occurred not twenty-four hours later. An intimidating wealthy matron had served Peter Italian roast coffee on a terrace with a million-dollar view, and then proceeded to deftly put an FBI agent in his place with polite grace and elegance. There was no question where the lady had decided to bestow her allegiance.

Not long after, Peter ran head-long into a Neal associate. Peter and his White Collar team always theorized that, besides Kate Moreau, Caffrey also ran with a go-to guy during his many capers. It made sense since even Neal couldn’t clone himself and be in two places at once. But “Dante Haversham” wasn’t quite what Peter had been expecting. The myopic, bald little misanthrope looked harmless enough, but Peter learned the hard way that outward appearance can be deceiving. If Peter had a crystal ball back then, he would have been dumbfounded to see himself throwing in his lot with the pint-sized, under-the-radar charlatan too many times to count. There would be glimpses of them in that transparent orb sitting, side by side, in army fatigues talking their way into a warehouse. Another vision was that of a critic testing out Peter’s bartending skills on a tropical island. And, of course, there was the time that Mozzie’s talent for ferreting out a hacker extraordinaire ensured that a nefarious criminal was cornered in a train station and brought to justice.

Yes, if Peter had any idea at the onset that he would willingly forge an unholy, paradoxical alliance with a sketchy guy like Mozzie, he would have vehemently denied that it could ever happen. But it would come to pass, and, unbelievably, Peter would one day find himself a bit envious of the close bond between two misfits, one quite charming and the other somewhat quirky. But we’re getting ahead of ourselves in this story.

The Handler/CI deal was supposed to be easy to understand. Neal wore a tracker and Peter could keep abreast of any activities off the clock from the White Collar office. The Marshals monitored Neal’s movements 24/7 and alerted him when a perimeter was breached. A harbinger of things to come happened just the second day after Neal’s release when the brash young kid showed up at Peter’s door. That morning, a less than pleased Federal Agent found his responsibility schmoozing with his wife and cuddling with his dog. Neal hadn’t run _from_ Peter’s grasp; he had actually run _to_ his handler. See—now that was complex and a bit annoying. Boundaries were meant to be in place for a reason, but Neal had made it clear that he didn’t intend to play by the rules.

Of course, Neal being Neal, the game continued in that vein with more Marshal’s alerts that became less feverishly intense as, time after time, the gatekeepers noted the felon’s “escape” route seemed headed for Brooklyn. Peter stopped peering nervously out the front window as a taciturn Marshal informed him that “your criminal buddy seems to be headed your way again.” Peter would wait for his CI in the kitchen after he texted _“door’s open; coffee’s on.”_ A little less angst eventually would lead to Peter exempting his home from Neal’s radius. But again, we’re seeing a future not yet unfolded.

From the outset, Peter knew that he had to be constantly alert and on guard. Although Neal might be clever and compelled to push the envelope, his handler reasoned that he was just as smart and could keep up. An electronic leash was a definite weapon in Peter’s arsenal, at least it was supposed to give him an advantage in this tenuous relationship. But one day not long after the “deal” was underway, an informative Marshal put a pin in that little balloon of smug complacency. The monitoring specialist had arranged a sheaf of printouts on Peter’s desk showing Neal’s movements over the course of the last four weeks. “See the gaps here, and here, and here,” the man pointed out. “Those are the times that the tracker’s communication cut out.”

“Why wasn’t I told about this sooner?” Peter demanded to know.

“Well, it’s like this,” the Marshal explained. “Caffrey’s locations just before contact was lost were various entrances to subway stations throughout the city. Those platforms go down deep underground with tons of overhead concrete, so our monitoring devices can’t penetrate. We kept an eye out to see where his signal next popped up and it was always at a subway access point within his 2-mile radius. So, that’s why you weren’t notified. But it’s happening quite frequently lately, so as a CYA precaution, we’d thought we’d bring it to your attention.”

“Thanks,” Peter muttered thoughtfully as he looked at the times and dates more closely. Not one of them corresponded to Neal’s 9-5 schedule here at the office. This was cause for concern, at least to Peter. Had Neal figured out the glitch in the tracking system and taken advantage of it? Some of these subway rides lasted for almost an hour, and most times he doubled back to exactly where he had started. None of the joyrides took him anywhere near a museum, a jewelry store, or even a bank, so what was the appeal of riding the rails at all hours of the night? Was this a way his CI had found to conduct some nefarious business away from prying eyes while still keeping his lair a secret from people who may be dangerous? Neal was about to have a “ _Come to Jesus_ moment!”

Of course, the young felon looked the picture of innocence when confronted by his handler later in the day. “So, I occasionally take the subway. What’s the big deal about that?”

“You take cabs every day to get here to work, Neal, not the subway.” Peter pointed out. “And that’s a curious inconsistency that makes me start to wonder what you’re up to in your spare time.”

“I take cabs to work because I can write that off as a business work-related expense on my taxes,” Neal shrugged.

“You don’t earn enough income that merits filing taxes,” Peter scoffed. “At least legitimate income,” he added nastily.

“Oh, well, my bad,” Neal smiled charmingly. “But you’re right about my meager monthly stipend from Big Brother. If I squandered that pitiful pittance on cabs for my personal use, I’d be penniless before the end of the second week and have to go hungry. Ergo, I utilize the NYC transit system—much cheaper.”

“Your fairy godmother landlady feeds you, Neal,” Peter snorted.

“Not always,” the con man objected.

“Let’s get back to the subway. Exactly what do you do while you’re riding the rails at all times of the night?” Peter stared hard at his partner.

“I find it relaxing when I can’t sleep, and it gives me the opportunity to study the human condition,” Neal said with a seriousness that was almost comical.

Peter scowled. “I know I’m going to regret asking, but why do you find it necessary to study the _human condition_ , which, at that hour, is probably a conglomeration of drug dealers, prostitutes, and vagrants.”

“Maybe I’m collecting data for a book I intend to write,” Neal grinned, almost daring Peter to challenge that statement.

Peter just shook his head, looked down at his desk papered with printouts, and prayed for divine guidance. Why was it always some complicated dance with his paroled felon? Even direct questions got Peter less than satisfying answers. “You’re not writing any book, Neal. Try again,” he goaded, almost morbidly curious to know where this was going to lead.

Neal played his part perfectly as he heaved a dramatic, long-suffering sigh. “Why can’t you visualize me as an author, Peter? Lots of writers address social concerns and create anthologies about what they’ve unearthed as they travel the world and meet all kinds of people from different strata. Perhaps you may not be well-read enough to be familiar with a book penned by celebrated author John Steinbeck back in the 1960s. It was a diary of sorts called ‘ _Travels with Charley.’_ The man made his way across the United States in a camper to get a personal sense of his subject matter. By the way, ‘Charley’ was his pet poodle—the standard-size one, in case you’re interested.”

“I must have missed that literary blockbuster,” Peter harrumphed as he rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, I guess being a mathlete in college didn’t allow much time for reading classic literature,” Neal commiserated. “But maybe you’ve read a more contemporary literary effort by Tom Brokaw called _‘The Greatest Generation.’_ The well-respected TV newscaster kept busy after retirement by interviewing and actually writing profiles on men who grew up during the Great Depression and then went on to fight overseas in World War II. It was very macho and inspiring, so it may appeal to you. Maybe you should think about jotting down your own experiences here in White Collar. It could be fodder for a future project during your fast-approaching golden years.”

“Neal, can you stop with all this deflection?” Peter said tiredly. “I’m neither an idiot nor a fool, so don’t try to play me like one of your marks. That won’t end well for you.”

Neal did manage to look a bit contrite. “Message received, Peter. I certainly don’t want to cause you any unnecessary worry—not that it’s warranted. And, just so you know, it’s totally inconceivable that I’d ever be able to pull the wool over your eyes because I’m very well aware of how really smart you are.”

“Don’t push it, Neal, by overcompensating. The bullshit in here is already so deep, I’m going to need a shovel to get out of my office,” Peter snarked. “Let me make it easy for you. Just stop studying the human condition in the middle of the night. No more playing Whack-a-Mole on the subway!”

Neal grinned and headed for the door, purposefully ignoring Peter’s parting shot of, “I guess I am pretty smart, Buddy, since I’m 3 & 0 in our game of one-upmanship.”

Dream on, Peter.


End file.
